


the school of extraordinary lovers

by stylinsoncity



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Classical Music, Closeted Harry, Closeted Louis, Coming Out, Curses, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Character Death, Pianist Louis, Pining, Smut, Vampire Louis, Vampires, Violinist Harry, Witch Harry, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsoncity/pseuds/stylinsoncity
Summary: "We keep telling the other, I love you and I love you, and we do, though we both know where the knives are."- Laura Van Prooyenharry is a third-year witch and violinist at Laitswold, the only magical academy in the UK, with dreams of taking on the world, and hopefully breaking the centuries-old curse on his family while he's at it. he does not dream of facing off against his childhood rival and duet partner, but louis is back in town after six years abroad, so that's exactly what happens.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 61
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tT4Nr5ZTB7qfGmD199Xhx?si=Ta7ZkIW-Skq3Jsum9TQyVg)

Growing up in Ravenoir is like this:

First, you must know that the town doesn’t exist on any map. As a child, this might cause brief bouts of paranoia, centered on the possibility that perhaps you also don’t exist. But you do. There’s blood in your veins. The wind moves around you, not through you. Ravenoir exists. Humans just don’t know about it.

If a human asks you where you’re from, you mention some neighboring London suburb and that should suffice.

Second, you don’t talk to humans.

Growing up in Ravenoir, like any other town, means attending the same primary and secondary school with the same kids you’ve always known, and then “leaving home” to attend the magical university a thirty-minute train ride away where those same kids are also headed.

You grow up. Some of you grow up faster or slower than others. But you learn to control your magic or your thirst or your urges. You stick to your own species as they are the ones who are best suited to help you and the other species can’t be trusted. You find your people and you find your place. 

And someday maybe, you’ll feel individual enough and at the same time ordinary enough to brave the world on your own and leave it all behind.

That’s the dream anyway. Harry has a lot of those. 

He peers across the store at the old man, dragging a broom through the aisles while humming to himself. At the same time, the man looks at him. “Sorry,” he says and stops humming.

Harry smiles. “That’s alright.”

The old man is Mr Ueda. He runs Katagiri, the Japanese grocery store where Harry works. Also, he’s human but harmless. Mr Ueda leans his broom against the wall and peers over Harry’s shoulder at the sheet music on the counter. “I think I know this one,” he says, pushing his glasses on. “Etude Op.10 No.4. That’s a piano piece, isn’t it?”

“Historically,” Harry says. “But I’ve been studying the violin part all summer. It’s tough—”

“Never stops you,” Mr Ueda says. He removes his glasses, attached to a beaded chain, and they fall against his stomach. “First day of class tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And my new advisor is incredible. He was the youngest person to ever perform the piece on piano. He’s done so many incredible things. Performed and taught around the world. Maybe one day I’ll be half as great as him.”

“If that’s what you want to happen, that’s what will happen,” Mr Ueda says, lifting a stack of boxes behind the counter and heading off towards the supply room.

Very many things have worked out exactly the way Harry wanted them to according to Mr Ueda. There was the occasion in which a drunk man came into the store and began to berate the old man. Harry approached them very calmly. “I want you to purchase what you came for,” he said. “And then I want you to leave.” With only some grumbling, the drunk did as requested and never returned.

“How’d you get him to do that?” Mr Ueda asked.

Harry shrugged. “I think he recognized me. I run with some dodgy people.”

Mr Ueda did not seem convinced, but they left it at that. 

In another instance, Harry and Mr Ueda once heard that their favorite pizza shop was shutting its doors for good. “We can’t let that happen,” Harry told his boss. The following day, Mr Ueda reported that the pizza shop owners had a sudden change of heart. The circumstances that propelled them to close in the first place were simply no longer relevant.

And finally, there’s the matter of Harry’s employment. When he first applied, there was a nighttime clerk who’d been working with Mr Ueda for years. “I can only afford to pay two people," he'd said. "One person for the day time and one at night.” Harry needed the job. He also couldn’t work during the day because of his classes. And the Japanese grocery store was so conveniently located near the conservatory.

“I really want this job,” Harry said. “I think I’d be great for the shop. You just don’t know it yet.”

Mr Ueda laughed. “Why don’t you leave your number? If the nighttime kid quits, the job is yours.”

Phrasing it like that didn’t leave Harry much choice. Days later, Mr Ueda called. His nighttime clerk had quit suddenly and found a teaching job. “I guess you got your wish,” he said.

And from that point on, Harry got most of his wishes, much to Mr Ueda’s wonderment. But the old man never asked too many questions. It’s long been the case that humans typically do not. When met with circumstances they can’t explain — where ‘magic’ is the only explanation — subconsciously, they’d rather not know.

Truth is there’s a spell for almost anything. Small things mostly. To Mr Ueda’s point, there’s no magic that can make a person a better musician. Not in any real or lasting way. And Harry wouldn’t want it even if there was. There’s no pleasure in suddenly being good at something either.

The conservatory — MacMaghnuis Hall — where Harry takes his music classes also has a defense against magic. Most of the buildings on campus do. Only the professors are immune. Things like charming better grades or willing an assignment into nonexistence aren’t possible, although many still try.

“I can take care of the boxes,” Harry says when Mr Ueda returns to hoist another stack into his arms.

Mr Ueda waves him off. “You should keep studying.”

“You don’t pay me to study.”

“No, I pay you to mind the till, which you’re also doing.”

Harry is about to argue that no one has come in for the last hour and a half. That no one ever comes in this late.

Of course, that’s when someone does. Two people. The first is a girl in denim overalls and heeled boots, long red-hair and red-painted lips. The boy with her is dressed in a leather jacket, dark jeans, and Doc Martens. Harry doesn’t know the girl, but he recognizes him.

And he doesn’t need to know them to know their kind.

Mr Ueda leaves with the boxes. The two “customers” browse and flirt, opening a bottle of soda and a bag of chips to share. The girl points at a brand of Japanese chocolates and makes a joke about the flavoring, which seems insensitive. Harry takes offense to it, but then he finds everything vampires do offensive.

Harry rests his chin on his fist, watching them as they approach.

“Oh, shit. It’s Harry Styles,” the boy says.

“The one and only,” Harry replies. And the boy is Zayn Malik. It took Harry a second to remember his name. He graduated three years ago and obviously, they never ran in the same circles. Harry looks at the vampiress. “You have to pay for all that.”

She smiles, tilting her head as if regarding a pet in a funny costume. “Technically, I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

Harry closes his sheet music. “No, I guess not. But then I couldn’t let you leave.”

“I’d love to see you try stopping me, witch.”

Harry straightens his spine. He looks from her to Zayn, sizing them both up. He could incapacitate one vamp, but in the time it took him to do so, the other would snap his neck. It won’t come to that. It never does. But quickly, he prepares himself for any and all possible outcomes.

“Deep breaths, Kim,” Zayn says to the girl. He slides ten quid across the counter. “That’s enough, yeah?”

Harry taps away at the buttons of the till. “It’s 10.46, actually.”

Zayn digs around in his pocket. He pulls out a fifty pence coin and places it on the counter.

“Keep the change,” Kim snarls. She collects her chips off the counter and heads towards the door.

Harry places four pence on the counter for Zayn. “We’re good.”

Zayn collects his change. “See you around.”

“Probably not,” Harry says. Watching him go, he’s irritated beyond measure by the girl and the little smirk Zayn throws him as he takes a sip of his Coke.

“I’ll tell Louis you said hi,” Zayn says.

Harry doesn’t look up again until Zayn has turned his back to him. He hardly ever feels threatened by vampires. Purely annoyed. Inconvenienced by their existence. But there’s real fear coursing through him now and as his heart begins to race, the worst part is knowing Zayn can hear it.

In his past, in his childhood, there was always one vampire who inspired astronomic levels of rage. One of the youngest to perform Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No.4 on piano. The tyrant next door. Heir to the oldest pureblood empire in the UK.

It’s not enough to speak of the Devil. Not Lucifer Morningstar. To summon him, one needs sigils, and blood, and piety, and a very, very good reason.

But at least for one devil, this isn’t so.

It’s as Zayn opens and steps through the shop door that Harry catches a glimpse of the driver in the sleek black convertible parked out front. And it’s that devil that he sees — the prince of the purebloods himself.

†

Harry changes his tie four times. He can’t decide whether to wear the black with silver stripes or the silver with black stripes. It seems a silly thing to spend so much time debating, but it’s the only exercise of agency his uniform allows him.

For a university student, having to wear a uniform might be a dealbreaker. For university students who also happen to be witches, demons, werewolves, or vampires, there aren’t dealbreakers. Laitswold is one of only four preternatural institutions in the world, the only one in the U.K., and the only one with a classical music program of its pedigree. 

And Harry is a third-year, so he’s had enough time to make the best of it and all its many flaws.

He goes for the black with silver stripes. He leaves the top button of his dress shirt open and fastens his tie loosely. He slides a ring onto almost every finger and shoves his feet into a pair of black Chuck’s.

Secretly, he applied to Oxford and to Cambridge and got into both. He applied to Harvard and Columbia for kicks. Got into those too. Truthfully, there was nothing stopping him from going and no laws that actually prevented it. You just know not to.

There’s a reason preternatural kids go to preternatural schools. It’s the same reason such schools exist in the first place. The reason why Ravenoir exists undisclosed on a map. There’s protection within the community. Outside, the community can only do so much. Human minds are unfortunately small with an even smaller ability to comprehend things beyond their realm of believability. History has proven that humans will first react with willful ignorance, and then when pushed, they react with rage. The Salem witch trials, the St Osyth witch trials, Würzburg, Ramsele, the Spanish fucking Inquisition. The list goes on.

History says you don’t go fraternizing with humans unless you have to, and if you have to, you make sure you’re ready. You have no choice but to be ready.

Take the Trossy girl, for example. Over a decade ago, Abigail Trossy, a demon, attended a human high school in Italy. Her parents chose to send her there. They thought they were doing good for their child, bringing her up as a human. But one day, Abigail got into a row with some classmates and Abigail got angry.

There are a number of powers a demon can inherit, one being the ‘power of many’, or the power to duplicate oneself, usually for the purposes of overwhelming a possessed host. In the heat of a grade school argument, one Abigail became five red-faced teary-eyed Abigails. Two teachers and a parent witnessed the whole thing. Rumor has it her parents went underground to protect their daughter. Another claims she was abducted by the Italian government.

Whatever the case, Abigail Trossy was never seen or heard from again.

That’s not to say non-humans _don’t_ assimilate. With six billion humans to a billion supernaturals, it’s not like they really have a choice. But it’s only after years of compulsory education and rigorous training and of course, three to four years at a magical university like Laitswold.

The uniform also isn’t completely arbitrary. It’s a way of identifying species. Witches wear silver. Demons wear white. Wolves wear red. And vamps wear gold, but Harry likes to pretend they’re not around at all.

He opens his violin case, assuring his instrument is there, freshly polished. Shutting the case, he peeks at himself once more. “Ready, Willow?”

The silver cat lazing on his bed rises with a lengthy stretch. She bounds down to the floor and follows him out the door. Early morning sunlight soaks the hallway as Harry heads to the courtyard. He spots Niall standing at the front steps of Forksnotch Hall with a young witch, who Harry knows as Ada.

“I look alright, yeah?” Harry pauses to ask.

“You look like every other witch running around here,” Niall says.

That’s exactly what Harry doesn’t want. “Thanks,” he says tiredly. 

Ada gives Niall’s tie a tug. “Did you hear me? I have lunch at 13:00.”

“I’ll be in class,” says Niall. “How about dinner?”

“Fine,” she says. She glances at Harry. “You should come along too, Harry. My friends will be there.”

“Thank you for the invite, Ada,” Harry says, smiling. “I have work, but maybe next time.”

“Deal,” she says, tossing him a discreet wink and then, she’s gone.

Niall glares. “Stop it.”

“What?” Harry asks, his smile turned innocent, though just as beguiling.

“You know what. We’re not doing this three years in a row,” says Niall. “Every girl. Every single one I’ve ever been interested in— You stole them all.”

“Implying that I steal them robs them of their autonomy.”

“Shut the fuck up. I really like her.”

“You just met her last night,” Harry says.

“If you sleep with her, we’re never talking again.”

“If you say she’s off-limits, she’s off-limits,” Harry says, gripping Niall reassuringly by the shoulders. “Can’t be late for class.”

MacMaghnuis Hall is a fifteen-minute walk away, separate from the rest of the campus, past Katagiri and the local pub and the coffee shop. Niall heads off to the Psych building and Harry starts his walk, contemplating a new bike purchase. He left the previous one behind after a very inebriated stint at a party. He had only himself to blame when it was gone the next morning.

“That’s a good idea, yeah?” Harry asks Willow. “A bike with a basket for you to ride around in?”

She peers up at him and he detects curiosity and excitement, which he’ll take as a yes.

His class is in Professor O’Meara’s office, located in Building A, the oldest wing of the hall. It’s a bit disheveled and low on the priority list for renovations. Professor O’Meara could very well have requested a better classroom or office elsewhere, but Harry suspects he likes the seclusion of their current set-up.

He climbs the stone spiral staircase with its ceiling comprised entirely of glass panes. All the way at the top, he enters the room. It’s large, but so ornately furnished as to feel small. Not cramped, but cosy. A large wooden desk at the front of the room. Five chairs in the center, positioned in a wide circle with enough room for their instruments.

Jude O’Meara is sitting atop the desk, dressed in beige slacks and a crisp white shirt and the dark green robe worn by all professors. “Welcome, Harry,” he says, his voice buttery smooth. “Get comfortable.”

Harry nods and heads to an available seat, one that is close to the professor, but where he can maintain eye contact. He thought of this ahead of time.

“I believe we’re still waiting for two more,” Professor O’Meara says to the room.

Harry tries not to stare at him, but it’s difficult. He’s older and though he’s dressed neatly, he doesn’t seem to care much about appearances. His hair is longer than most men tend to wear it, though not as long as Harry’s. Harry keeps his hair long on purpose. He’s convinced it enhances his power. Jude seems like the type who just can’t be bothered to cut it regularly. 

It’s as he’s lost in this thought that the door opens again.

“Welcome, Louis,” Professor O’Meara says.

Harry looks toward the door. He feels as if he’s seeing a ghost. In the light streaming through the windows, Louis’ pale skin is just as eerie. But he’s beautiful as always. He’s taller than Harry remembers, but still no taller than him, Harry assumes. The colors of his blazer are, of course, gold. The ring on his middle finger is too. He’s not wearing his tie, though. Thinks he’s too good for it, most likely.

The last time Harry saw him was six or seven years ago. And just last night, in the front seat of that convertible, although he had almost successfully convinced himself that was a dream.

Louis sinks into a seat across from him. As far away as one could get. “Might be in the wrong place. This is your advanced class, isn’t it?”

Professor O’Meara turns to face him. “What about your company at the moment makes you think it isn’t?”

Louis glances again at Harry. “Nothing at all. Don’t worry about it.” 

The dread settling in Harry’s stomach is akin to what he felt all throughout primary school. Louis thwarted authority at every turn. He spoke over their teachers and slowly but surely, he twined them around his fingers. Teachers and students alike, so that the prince of the purebloods became the prince of homeroom and the prince of P.E. and the prince of maths. He excelled in his classes, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t have to excel. He didn’t have to try. Their teachers ate from the palm of his hand as if the gold threads of his uniform were actual gilded platters and that their favoritism would see them as rich and esteemed as the Tomlinson family in no time.

On cue, O’Meara says, “I knew your father.”

The smile on Louis’ face diminishes. “Most people do,” he says.

“Yes, well, I hate to refer to my class as advanced. As if we’re all machines,” O’Meara says to them all. “I hope over the course of the semester you’ll redefine what advancement looks like. Perhaps anything goes. Perhaps when we let go of the standard, that’s when we make something truly beautiful.”

He hops down from his desk. “I’m sure Lord Tomlinson wouldn’t be happy to hear that,” he says. “But this isn’t his class. Or yours.”

Louis sits back in his seat, his jaw locked. Harry chooses then to sit forward, folding his hands together very studiously. He can feel his own eyes gleaming somehow. He’s reeling. And when Louis’ gaze flickers to him, he’s sure it’s obvious.

Harry grins. “Dickhead,” he mouths.

†

Before dismissal, they were instructed to call the professor ‘Jude’. ‘Professor O’Meara’ was his father and ‘much less talented’, he said.

The Professor Senior was a witch, tenured for a time at King’s College where he studied and met his human wife and had their only son. Thus, Jude was half-human, although he possessed no magic of his own.

Jude didn’t need magic. By ten, he was recognised globally as a musical genius. By sixteen, he’d studied at Julliard and the Royal Academy of Music. Throughout those years, he was composing. By eighteen, he was teaching. He’s in his late twenties or early thirties now and has taught many a seminar, advised many a student, and Harry is lucky to count himself among his newest proteges.

The way he shamed Louis that morning alone makes him unparalleled.

Harry smiles to himself as he takes a sip of his matcha and opens his sheet music.

“You seem happy,” Mr Ueda says.

“I’m very happy.”

“That professor is as good as you hoped?”

“And then some,” Harry says.

No credit whatsoever to Louis, but he was right that Jude’s class was categorically ‘advanced’. It was the most elite of elite classes. Jude only took on five advisees every year — one pianist, one bassist, one cellist, one violist, and a violinist — and Harry was well aware of the exclusivity when he auditioned for acceptance to Laitswold’s music program. All eight of the program’s professors sat at the table, but Harry only had eyes for Jude. He’s endured two years of courses just to get to this one.

“It isn’t enough just to be able to play an instrument,” Jude had said before dismissal. “One has to know the instrument. To have failed the instrument and then to have made amends.”

And Harry just… nosedived. He could see the whole semester playing out before him in that instant. A full, tumultuous romance with his music. He could hardly wait.

“Still haven’t wiped that idiotic look off your face?”

At the end of the block, Harry recoils.

The lights of Katagiri are dim behind him, although Mr Ueda’s Kia is still parked out front. It’s thirty till midnight, Harry is on his way home and there at the crosswalk is Louis Tomlinson.

He’s been gone for six years. Six years Harry has lived without even a glimpse of him in person. Only for him to turn up now, regularly and randomly, in Harry’s sacred spaces. Outside of his workplace. In a class he waited years to take. Is this what it would be like from here on out? Where would he show up next? The used bookstore in the town over? At Harry’s favorite pub? 

“Are you stalking me?” Harry asks, just as two boys exit the diner behind them. Louis waves to them. They wave back.

Louis looks at Harry as he finishes lighting the cigarette between his lips. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I’m ending a night out. With friends. Know anything about that?” he asks. The crosswalk light changes. “It’s way more likely that you’re stalking me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Harry says. “This is my way home.”

“Seems like you’re lost, then. This way is towards Lysgrom. Last I checked those weren’t witch dorms. You should be headed in the opposite direction, no?”

“It’s not 1990. There are no witch dorms anymore. It’s all co-ed. I’m in Lysgrom.”

“Whole school’s gone to shit,” Louis says.

Harry tries to maintain some distance from him, but it’s difficult as they’re both walking at the same pace. He pulls up his text messages although no one is texting him. Two minutes into the walk, Louis receives a call.

“Sorry, I lost track of time— About fifteen minutes—”

Louis pulls the phone away from his ear, peering at the screen. Then stuffs the phone into his pocket. He starts to walk a bit faster.

Harry can’t help himself. “Keeping another date waiting?”

“Always.”

“Have fun,” Harry says, starting down his usual path through the wooded park.

“You’re headed the wrong way,” Louis says. “But that’s not my business.”

Instead of walking on, Harry stops. “This is a short cut. I take it every day. Saves you nearly ten minutes. And you seem to be in a hurry.”

Louis peeks at his phone again. He turns and begins walking ahead of Harry into the park. “Didn’t you always talk about going to Oxford?” he asks. “Didn’t get in?”

“I did. I chose Laitswold instead,” Harry says. “I’m surprised to see _you_ here, though. And taking third-year classes too? Did Daddy Tommo pull some strings?”

“Go fuck yourself, love.”

“I’ll just get someone to do it for me.”

“You get around a bit, do you?”

“Of course,” Harry says. “I learned from the best.”

Louis stops and turns. “I hardly touched you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says with a laugh. “But if it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, fine.”

“There’s nothing you could ever do or say to make me feel any less than great. I forgot you even existed until today,” Louis says, looking at him from head-to-toe as if he were litter. “Best get back to it.”

If it’s true, Harry would like to know how he did it. What manner of magic he used to rid Harry from memory. Surely, there’s a spell for it, although it’s more likely that Louis is bluffing.

“What you said in class was disrespectful,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t be surprised he responded the way he did.”

“Why are you still talking to me?” Louis asks.

“I’m just saying. Some people deserve more respect than you think.”

“Have you got a little crush on our new professor?”

Harry hates it, but he feels immediately defensive. “Fuck off.”

Louis’ lips twitch. “Right. All makes sense now.”

This round, like many in the past, belongs to Louis. Harry simply can’t find a worthy or winning response, so he remains quiet and accepts his momentary defeat.

It’s a very dark foggy night. Most nights in Ravenoir were, as if to provide cover for the all magic afoot. It’s the same here. Just ten or fifteen minutes east was another town where Harry had observed clear nights for days on end while the sky above Laitswold remained shrouded in a ghostly haze. It’s never bothered him. He grew up here after all.

But he’s eager to see something different. A brighter sky. The sky above a foreign city. Now that Louis is back, now that Louis has seen the world and returned unscathed, Harry wants nothing more than to get out of this place. To go further than him. To find somewhere more open, more radical, and free.

Where perhaps he could harmlessly fancy his male professor and feel less like a degenerate.

Up ahead, Louis comes to a stop. A second later, Harry does the same.

In the lamplight a few meters away, there are five boys standing around. Waiting. Harry detects malevolence, but no magic. They’re human, he concludes, but they’ve come to do harm. He looks at the tall bloke five steps away and recognises him from a party three days ago.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Louis tsks. “What did you do this time?”

Harry ignores him, stepping forward. The instant he’s spotted, the boys turn to face him, tossing their cigarettes to the ground. The road of course is deserted. It’s a shortcut that hardly anyone uses this late because of the sparse streetlamps.

“John, yeah?” Harry calls out. “Amber’s boyfriend?”

John, Amber’s boyfriend, looks at his friends with amusement. “Oh, good. He remembers me. Makes this easier.”

“Listen,” Harry says. “Amber and I are just friends. I think she was trying to make you jealous the other night, but it was one kiss and I doubt it meant anything to her.”

“You think I’m a fucking ejit?” John asks.

“Of course not,” Harry says. “But I think you might be a little insecure.”

Louis massages his forehead. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, removing his backpack and setting it at his feet.

“What?” Harry asks him. He looks at John again, closing the distance between them. “We all get a little insecure sometimes. Mate, I get it. Sometimes you can’t help but feel inferior. I swear to you I’m not shagging your girlfriend. But she’s a lovely girl. Maybe if you’re this threatened by us hanging out, you should spend more time with her. And not with Valerie. Unless, of course, you want to keep seeing Valerie. In which case, if I were to sleep with Amber, I think that’d be fair, don’t you?”

Louis has finished rolling up his sleeves by the time John throws the first of his punches. He just manages to graze Harry’s mouth. They both saw it coming. Harry wanted it to come. It gives him an excuse to bring the top of his violin case up into John’s stomach. John wheezes and capitulates. Harry wipes the blood from the corner of his lip. Lackey A lunges at Harry. Louis lunges at Lackey A. They all converge on each other. The odds are not in Harry’s favor, but they never are and it’s never mattered before, especially not when Louis is involved.

Harry is drawn into a memory of childhood rows. Always over some girl. Harry was and still is an incessant flirt and it got him into trouble. Louis was mouthy and stuck up and that got him into trouble too. They attended human parties sometimes. They went into neighboring parts of London looking for trouble. Human boys always thought they could take them on. But of course, they never could. Some things don’t change.

Harry’s nose is bleeding by the end of it, but John and his boys are much worse for wear. It should be mentioned that aside from a dislodged button, Louis is perfectly fine. Harry lifts his violin case, wiping a bit of dirt off the side. He starts toward the dorms again, leaving John and his boys picking each other up off the floor.

“That was nostalgic,” Harry says, pinching the bridge of his nose until the bleeding stops, taking greedy breaths of air. He catches Louis looking at him. “Thirsty?”

“I’d rather drink toilet water, believe me,” Louis says.

Historically, that isn’t true and they know it.

“You really should stop sleeping with other people’s girlfriends and just get your own,” Louis advises.

“I’m not actually sleeping with her. _Yet._ And I don’t want a girlfriend of my own.”

“So you’d rather get your teeth kicked in?”

Harry flashes him a pearly smile. “Think I’ll be fine.”

“Think I had something to do with that.”

The lights of Lysgrom finally come into view. “I don’t.”

“You’ve never won a fight without me.”

“I’ve never asked for your help either,” Harry says. They exit the park, the dorms just a yard away. “I could’ve handled them on my own.”

Louis withdraws another cigarette from his pocket and lights up. It’s a horrible habit, but it wouldn’t kill him. Very little could. He stops at the lamp post outside of Lysgrom. “Hope he brings some more friends tomorrow. I’ll make sure not to be there.”

“Fine by me, dickhead.”

“Ungrateful little shit,” Louis mutters.

Harry pauses on the stairs. “Have a pleasant night,” he says.

The last thing he sees before stepping into the building is Louis’ middle finger hoisted in the air.


	2. Chapter 2

Louis enters Jude's office on-time and quiet as a mouse, the latter of which isn’t as difficult for him. Purebloods breathe and their hearts beat, but they can stop both at will if, for some reason, they need to. They can appear cold as the dead, or not, in an instant. They’re a strange race, defying all understanding of life and death. Even average vampires are confounded by them. And jealous of them. Everyone, if they’re honest, is a little jealous of purebloods.

They’re born into this world crying like any other being — human or otherwise — and they grow and they age until around thirty, when they simply stop aging. Cemented at their prime for all eternity. 

And none of this impedes their ability to reproduce. (Louis’ father, for example, has at least twenty children, though Louis is the oldest.)

They have all the delights of mortality, but they never have to die.

Who wouldn’t envy that? Harry, for more reasons than one, is envious too.

Louis sinks into the seat he occupied three days ago. He looks at Jude’s desk and then at the door. “Where is everyone else?” he finally asks. He’s not looking at Harry, but since they’re the only ones in the room, Harry assumes the question is for him.

“I have no idea,” Harry says. He received an email the evening prior from Jude asking him to come in the next morning. ‘Impromptu Meeting’, it was titled and sent to ‘undisclosed recipients’, which led Harry to assume Jude sent the message to the whole class.

The door opens and Jude steps into the room. “Oh, great. We’re all here.”

Harry assumed wrong. He and Louis watch him approach his desk like a person might watch a foreign animal. One must ask himself, ‘Is the animal friendly?’ ‘Does the animal feed on human flesh?’

Jude sets his things down and turns to face them. “Sorry to spring this on you, but thank you for showing up. I’ve been very curious about you two since before the term began,” he says. “I was there at the Sandoli International Competition, so I’ve seen you perform together.”

He speaks swiftly and directly with no regard for the fact that he’s uttered a forbidden word. Louis sits up straighter, ready to attack or defend himself. Harry slouches in his seat, wishing he could disappear.

“You two are some of the best I’ve seen, if not the best,” Jude goes on. “And I’ve worked with quite a lot of people. Particularly as a duet, you’re unparalleled.”

Harry tries to maintain eye contact with the professor. He doesn’t want him to know, or perhaps he doesn’t want Louis to know: How little he’s moved on, how poorly he’s recovered. Unparalleled isn’t how he would describe himself back then. He remembers his palms sweating so badly that any second he knew he would drop his instrument. He remembers the error he made at the very end. Within the last five notes. Like an ill-pitched dying breath.

“For two boys so young. Ten and twelve years old, and so confident and determined,” Jude says. “And Harry, of course, I was so sorry to hear about the awful tragedy following the event— ”

“Sorry, professor,” Louis interrupts. “Where exactly are you going with this?”

Jude lifts his brows. “Oh, right, well— Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor. I’d love to have you perform it again at our recital this term. Together, of course.”

“We haven’t worked together in years,” Harry finds it in himself to say.

Jude shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like a problem. How about we assess your skills right now?”

Harry and Louis look at one another. They haven’t shared a common thought in years either, but they seem to decide at once that their new professor is insane.

“I haven’t performed that piece since 2012,” Harry says.

“That’s alright,” Jude says. “I don’t want it to be perfect. You can even improvise.”

“Professor,” Louis says.

“Please, call me Jude.”

“Jude,” Louis says. “Clearly, he’s not comfortable.”

That gets Harry’s attention. He glares. “I’m fine.” He isn’t, but he has no choice now but to pretend otherwise. “I’ve improvised before.”

“Fine, then.” Louis stands and heads to the piano in the corner of the room. He takes a seat and looks at Harry expectantly.

“Excellent,” Jude says. From his briefcase, he removes the sheet music and sets it up at the piano.

Harry removes his violin from its case. He senses Willow sensing him, trying to telepathically comfort him. He appreciates that but he needs to get this over with. It's the only way he'll feel better. He joins Louis at the piano, standing perpendicular to him, angled so that he can see the sheet music. This is insanity.

Harry looks not at Louis, but the keys. At his hands lifting and resting gently on them. He lifts his violin to his shoulder as well, positions his fingers on the fingerboard. He waits.

Louis begins the opening notes of the piece. Drawing a breath and shutting his eyes, Harry lifts the bow to the strings and joins him.

It’s like waking up. When he isn’t playing, he often feels as if he’s sleepwalking through life. But he is, some part of himself rises like a tiger stretching out its spine, shaking off the torpor and reigniting its ferocity. He tries not to think about Louis. The beauty in how Louis plays is that Harry doesn’t have to. He knows he’ll perform soundly.

He peeks at the sheet music. Despite himself, he peeks at Louis. His bow slips. Harry stops playing, the air leaving his lungs. Louis’ hands come to a halt.

“That’s great,” Jude says, nonsensically.

Harry looks at him, feeling hysterical. “I can do it from the top.”

“No. That was brilliant,” Jude says, peering at them intensely, the mad wheels in his head spinning, drawing up smoke on metaphorical tar. “I’m very excited to work with you both this term. You should be just as excited to work again with each other.”

Louis exhales a small, quiet laugh and rises. Harry’s heart is still racing. He nods, doesn’t know what to say. Certainly not ‘thank you’ because he’s embarrassed and he’s far from grateful.

“I’d like for you two to meet again this weekend. Get reacquainted. Make yourselves friendly. Might be a good place to start,” Jude says. “Harry, I’ll put you in charge of seeing that that happens.”

“Of course,” Harry says.

“Very good,” Jude says. “That’ll be all.”

Then the professor goes to his desk and takes a seat, unpacking the rest of the contents from his briefcase without another word. Harry packs his violin away. When he looks up, Louis is already gone. Quietly and in shame, Harry slips out as well.

†

It’s too early to be awake, but Harry can’t get back to sleep. The thoughts in his head cluster like bees and their buzzing is impossible to ignore. Whenever it stops for even a second, he hears the unpleasant squeal of his bow when he fumbled yesterday.

That was Louis' fault, he decides. It’s always Louis’ fault.

Thus far, Harry has blundered twice in Louis’ presence. In Jude’s office and several days ago when they were walking home. When Harry said that thing about ‘learning from the best’. Why did he say that?

It’s true that Louis hardly touched him and Harry didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s also true that sometimes in dark rooms or dark corners, their lips would meet. Alone now, Harry allows himself to call them kisses. He allows a thought of Louis’ eyelashes brushing his own. Then he stops thinking about it completely.

It was unremarkably juvenile. Unmemorable, although Harry is sorry to report he remembers every second. But he was a boy. Aren’t all childhood experiences paramount simply because they’re the first of many? Louis was the first boy he ever kissed. The first boy he ever wanted to kiss. The first boy he liked and hated. This thinking is how Harry will get his power back. Louis isn’t important or significant to him in any way. Louis was simply the first.

Primed with new resolve, Harry gives up on sleeping. There’s a steady gradient affecting the sky, turning the pitch black to periwinkle and turning the periwinkle to powder blue. The sun will be out in no time. He rises and puts on the kettle. Untying the string he keeps on his wrist, he ties his hair back. He makes a cup of black tea. He feeds his familiar, though she’s more than capable of feeding herself. Finally, he pulls the massive grimoire from his shelf and reconvenes on his window seat.

It’s not his family’s grimoire. This one belonged to the Pennylynn coven before they died out. The one he studied before belonged to a witch named Dee. He’s loaned several grimoires in the past from the school’s library. He keeps a count. It’s too large to remember off the top of his head.

Every morning, he devotes an hour to studying a new coven’s written magic in hopes that it might lend new insight on curses and blights. So far, it hasn’t. But he’s learned a few new tricks. A spell to frost windows, for example. He’s not sure why that would ever be handy. But he does it now, holding his hand over the pane and whispering the incantation.

He draws a heart in the frost. “For you, love,” he says to Willow. As if to say ‘prove it’, she rises and relocates in his lap. He sets the grimoire aside. He should probably trade it for a new one. He’s known for a while now that the Pennylynn witches wouldn’t know much about curses. They were good down to their marrow.

Peering through the frost, the first notes of “Clair De Lune” inexplicably come to mind.

At the Tomlinson estate, they kept Louis’ Steinway piano in the atrium. Harry and Louis rehearsed there religiously. The day he suddenly recalls was cold. Frost on all the panes. Two fireplaces on either end of the glass room crackling. Harry sat close to Louis on the piano bench. It was a roomy bench. He sat close to him anyway.

Louis was still learning the piece, but already so good at it. In Harry’s opinion. Bar an error or two, which was expected. Just then, Louis missed a key. Harry felt somehow responsible. Like he had jinxed him. Louis’ gaze darted across the room to where his father was smoking a cigar.

Lord Tomlinson did not look at them, although he was always watching. Always listening.

“Again,” he said simply.

Without a word, Louis started from the top. He was focused, eerily so, and there were no errors on his next go. When he finished, he exhaled a shallow breath. He shot Harry a small smile, lowered his hands into his lap, and looked across the room once more.

“Again,” said Lord Tomlinson.

†

Louis enters the dining hall with three women in tow. They’re not hanging off of him, but it’s clear to Harry and everyone else that they’re with him. They’re always with him. Not these particular ladies, but always three or four of them. Igris watches Harry watching Louis.

“Do you think he’s actually dating any of them?” she wonders, turning the page of her novel. 

Harry blinks and pokes at his pasta. “He’s dating all of them.”

Igris lowers the novel. “I know that’s not judgement I hear. You’re literally with a different girl every week.”

“I’m not sleeping with all of them, though, am I?” Harry asks.

“Aren’t you?” Niall counters.

The question can’t be dignified with a response. He’d like it if more people understood and recognized the fine art of flirting when they saw it. That’s where Harry’s relationships with women flourish. Not to say he doesn’t sleep with some of them. (Not all.) But it’s the flirting that’s the most fun. On that note, he’s not convinced Louis enjoys the sex part either.

Then he watches Louis whisper into the ear of one of his companions and twist a lock of her hair around his finger. She blushes, leaning in. Their mouths meet.

“I’ll be right back,” Harry says, standing determinedly.

“Where are you going?” Niall asks.

Igris puts her book down. “What’s he up to now?” she asks Niall.

Harry can feel them watching him as he starts across the dining hall, past the wolves and the demons. He can feel a few students zeroing in on him as he grows closer to the other end of the hall. Into the vampire’s den. A few turns into several and several turns into all. A vampire or two on the fringes of his vision stands, looking for an excuse to pounce. One of the girls with Louis growls and he takes that as his cue to stop a safe yard away from the table.

A boy at the end of the table sits forward. “Another witch has lost their mind.”

“Didn’t my sister tutor you in year 9?” Harry asks. “You weren’t complaining about witches then.”

His name is David and he stands immediately, squaring his shoulders, putting all his testosterone to use. Willow phases into the space at Harry’s feet, her ears flattened against her head. Then Niall and Igris have hurried to stand with him. Everyone is suddenly braced for battle. So, perhaps, Harry did not think this through.

“Would you sit the fuck down?” Louis asks David.

David sinks into the wings of their metaphorical stage and sits quietly.

“If you march across the hall like you’re looking for a fight,” Louis says with a smile, “you might get a fight.”

“If you practiced common sense, you’d know I wasn’t looking for one at all,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Implying that Louis lacks common sense doesn’t bode well with his minions. Harry senses a rush of malevolence and bloodlust. At his feet, Willow hisses at the nearest vampire. The nearest vampire hisses back.

“You’re going to feel like an idiot when you hear what I wanted to say,” Harry says.

“You better make it quick,” Louis says. “Not all of these guys listen to me.”

“I don’t have your contact info,” Harry says. “And I need to arrange that meeting this weekend like O’Meara asked of us.”

“You don’t _need_ to.”

“I realise you don’t take the class seriously, but I do,” Harry says. “He put me in charge, so I’m going to see that we at least make an effort.”

Louis snorts. “Your number hasn’t changed. How about I just text you?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Who’s joking? You’ll receive a text from me by the end of the day.”

Harry pictures himself lunging across the table, his hands aimed at Louis’ neck. He basks for a moment in the possibility that he could wrestle Louis to the ground and get a hit or two in without causing more harm to his own hand. He pictures Louis crying ‘uncle’ and swearing never to disrespect him again.

Louis lifts his brows. “Are we finished?”

“I’ll wait for your text,” Harry says.

“Bye-bye,” one of the girls sing-songs, and then it’s over. Calmly, Harry strides off in the opposite direction with Igris and Niall right on his heels.

“Have you lost your fucking head, mate?” Niall asks as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“I have a class with him,” Harry says, emphasizing each word. “It’s not a huge deal. It shouldn’t be.”

“Having a class with someone doesn’t matter outside of class at all. You know that. I get it. You two used to be close or whatever it is, but you’re not anymore. You can’t just walk up to his table like that.”

“So, I should request an audience?” Harry asks, his eyes widening. “Jesus. He’s not the bloody messiah. I had a question regarding class and we’re still on campus.”

Igris frowns. “You’re being purposefully obtuse.”

“What she said,” Niall says. “You need to sort out this weird dominance bullshit you’ve got going with him. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

“Nor do I,” Igris says. “Sorry, H.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of either of you,” Harry says.

Niall scoffs. “Of course not. But I’m not going to let you get your throat ripped out by a vamp either, am I?” he asks, turning away. “Coming, Iggy?”

Igris smiles sympathetically at Harry. “See you. Don’t get yourself killed.”

†

Back at Lysgrom, Harry asks himself the question that was posed to him. Had he lost his head?

He takes a cold shower and it doesn’t help. He starts to stroke his cock, but he can tell already that the orgasm will be lackluster so he stops. He lies naked in bed, staring at his ceiling, trying to decipher words (and thus answers) in the spackling. 

He forgot how long the rage lasts after an encounter with Louis. He forgot what it was like to see Louis with girls, too. To feel jealous and to not know who exactly he was jealous of.

Everything he has worked to forget the last six years is back and none of it has changed. Not the girls. Not the rage. Not the music.

He forgot how cruel they could be to each other one moment and in the next, playing so beautifully they made audiences cry. That when Louis played, sometimes Harry wanted to cry. That when they played, and only when they played, for some small instant, all was forgotten. In the time it took Debussy to tell another tale, they forgave each other.

But only then. Only for the music.

His phone chimes. He reaches blindly for it.

‘Free tomorrow at noon,’ Louis says. ‘Let’s meet at the mall.’

Harry wants to ring him up and shout down the line that he never asked Harry if he was free at noon. That he is inconsiderate and pompous and always has been. But Harry is also tired and it’s that same urge to assert dominance that nearly started a lethal brawl hours earlier.

‘Fine,’ Harry replies and shuts his phone off for the night.

†

Harry will admit to no one that he spends the entire first half of the day sorting out an outfit, teasing and toying with his curls until they look like they’ve been painted by Botticelli, sorting out a new outfit when he loses interest in the first. Willow reclines at the corner of his bed, judging him. He avoids eye contact, and mental contact, with her.

“Stay here,” he says, leaning in and plopping a kiss on her head. “I’ll be fine.”

She isn’t convinced. In general, Harry isn’t convinced he’ll be fine either.

He takes the bus to the only mall in the vicinity, one town over. He chooses a seat outside at the restaurant Louis mentioned and orders a coffee. Louis is late as usual. Harry makes it through a chapter of a Joan Didion novel when he hears someone clear their throat. Beside him, and beside Louis, is a familiar blond woman dressed in a billowy white dress. She looks exactly as he remembers, except for the fact that she’s pregnant.

“Charlotte,” Harry says, happily.

She frowns. “It’s hasn’t been that long, has it? I’m not Lottie to you anymore?”

“Sorry,” Harry says. “It has been a long time, though.”

“It has,” Lottie admits. “Turned into such a babe, though. Don’t you think, Louis?”

“Aren’t you leaving?” Louis asks her.

Lottie ignores him. “I’m having a baby shower in a week. Louis can give you the details. It's short notice, but you should come,” she says. “But don’t bring a gift. We got way too much shopping done today.”

Harry glances at Louis. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see if I can make it.”

“Good. I do have to run, but it’s very nice to see you,” Lottie says. She kisses Louis’ cheek and leaning in, does the same to Harry. She looks him in the eye. “You’re not a stranger. Don’t act like one.”

“I’ll remember that,” Harry says, smiling, and then she’s gone.

The waiter drops off a glass of water. He asks if Louis would like anything else and Louis declines. When he’s gone, Harry says, “Motherhood suits her.”

Louis noticeably doesn’t remove his sunglasses. “It does.”

“My sister is pregnant too,” Harry says. “She’s due in spring.”

“Your mum must be happy.”

“Ecstatic,” Harry says with a genuine smile.

Louis says nothing. The dark void of his sunglass shades doesn’t offer much either. “We genuinely don’t have to do this,” he says suddenly. “I’d much rather take a nap and I’m still not sure what the point is of us meeting in the first place.”

“Jude spelled it out, didn’t he? It’s to build musical harmony.”

“We’ve got that covered. It’s the other type of harmony. It’s friendship and camaraderie. And I think we should quit at that while we’re ahead.”

“I’m not enjoying this any more than you are.”

“Pretending you’re in charge? You’re loving it,” Louis says. “Our kinds don’t get along, yeah? There’s no changing that. We’re no exception to that either, but we’ve always performed just fine together regardless.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Harry says. “I don’t recall us hating even the sight of each other back then.”

Louis shrugs. “So what? You want to get to the bottom of it? You want us to talk about why things evolved the way they did? I went away. You stayed here. We changed. Whatever it was that inspired us to get along even a little back then— It’s no longer relevant. Simple as that.”

“Why did you even bother to come?” Harry asks.

“I had time to spare,” Louis says. “And because you’re wrong. I do care about the class. Believe it or not, you’re not the only one with dreams and ambitions.”

“Great,” Harry says. “But the stakes are different for me. Whether you fail or succeed won’t change much in the grand scheme of your immortality. But I have a lot riding on my success. I actually have to try.”

“You’re confusing me with someone who cares,” Louis says. “Play your instrument. I’ll play mine. Don’t fuck up. End of story.”

“Harry!”

The sound of his name startles him. He breaks gazes with Louis, returning to himself. He sees her approaching with her shopping bags in one hand, waving the other comically. His heart sinks. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and searches for a tenner.

“Hi,” the girl says to them both. She glares at Harry. “You’re very hard to get a hold of, Harry Styles. I’m free this weekend and my parents are away. You know… To do that _thing_?”

Harry feels the color draining from his face. It’s his fault for staring blankly at her, forcing her to specify. 

“That thing?” Louis repeats with a smile. “We were just wrapping up here. So he’s all yours.”

Her eyes light up. “Perfect. Maybe your friend Louis is free too?”

Harry thinks of an incantation that might silence her, but he doesn’t know any off the top of his head. At any rate, it’s too late.

Louis’ brows dart upwards. “Not his friend, Louis Tomlinson?”

“Yes!” the girl says. “Do you know him? Also, you seem very familiar—” She scrutinizes him, then drops her voice to a whisper. “Are you a witch too? No, a demon? I’m Amber.”

Louis removes his sunglasses. “Goodbye, Amber,” he replies, his blue eyes turned black.

“Don’t,” Harry says sharply, and the compulsion breaks before it can take any effect. Amber blinks, looking confused. Louis’ eyes return to normal. Harry adds, “She’s a friend.”

“And your friend knows who I am because?” Louis asks.

“She’s known us both for years. She’s a cellist. She’s seen us perform before. At Sandoli.”

Amber gasps. “Of course! You’re Louis Tomlinson.”

“Yes, and you’re human,” Louis says.

“Actually, I’m a witch,” Amber whispers giddily.

“No, you’re not, love.” Louis returns his attention to Harry. “You have five seconds to explain.”

“I can and I will, but not here,” Harry says, looking around at the humans in the vicinity. “We can go to Amber’s place. It’s not far. I swear to you I have a very good explanation.”

Louis ponders them both. “Fine,” he says to Harry. “But I do hope it’s very, very good.”

“You can stop with the threats now,” Harry says, dropping a few quid on the table. 

Louis stands. “Oh, I’m not finished just yet.”

“My powers are detecting a lot of tension here. Maybe sexual?” Amber wonders. “We’ll have to get to the bottom of that. I’m parked this way.”

Louis runs his tongue along his canines as if he’s been struck by sudden bloodlust.

“Do not eat her,” Harry hisses at Louis.

Louis pushes his sunglasses on. “I’ll try my best.”

†

‘Anticipating’ by Britney Spears blasts from the speakers of Amber’s convertible, much to the annoyance of the old woman in the car beside them. The stoplight changes and Amber peels off, unaware and singing at the top of her lungs. Another stoplight later, the song has changed. More Britney. Something more mellow, but just as much of a deep cut.

Amber takes a sip of her milkshake and peeks periodically at Louis in the visor until the irritation overcomes him.

“Could I help you?” Louis asks.

At the sight of a green light, Amber lays her foot on the gas. “What exactly is your power?”

Louis huffs a laugh and ignores her, looking through the window.

“We don’t have powers, I told you,” Harry says to her. “Witches, wolves— They’re types of species.”

“But you said some people are gifted.”

“Demons, yes,” Harry says. “But it’s different.”

“So is Louis a demon?”

“Louis is right here,” Louis says. “And he’s not answering any questions.”

Amber purses her lips. “Well, excuse me.”

His reticence proves pointless once they reach Amber’s home. A quaint row house with a few cars parked in the drive. Approaching the front door, the tension congeals between Harry and Louis until he feels like he’s waist-deep in sludge or heavy snow. Can there be any recovery from this day? It seems unlikely. Amber unlocks the front door and steps inside, stooping to pet the dogs that rush to her feet. Louis hovers uncomfortably at the door’s threshold.

Harry clears his throat. “Amber. Would you mind inviting Louis in?”

Amber rises, her eyes widening. “I remember now! You said he was the V-word.”

“The V-word,” Louis repeats quietly.

“And a pureblood,” Amber adds. “That’s why you’re able to hang out in the sun.”

Louis shuts his eyes. “Harry.”

“Amber,” Harry says quickly. “Would you, please?”

“Right. Please come in,” Amber says with a flourish of her hands. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Louis steps over the threshold with a smile. “Big mistake.”

“You can ignore him,” Harry tells her. “Let’s head to your study?”

“Sure,” Amber says, shutting the front door, eying Louis with newfound wariness as she eases past him. The two fuzzy black dogs yap angrily at Louis. Amber calls them her ‘familiars’.

“Can’t wait for you to explain yourself,” Louis says to Harry, as the malevolence builds around his person. “Especially the part that involves me.”

Amber leads them down a flight of stairs to the study, flicking lights on as she goes. “Good thing my parents are in Barcelona this weekend,” she says. In the study, she leaves the lights off. “I got everything set up. You just have to help me with the candles.”

“Illumen,” Harry says, and every candle around the room is aflame.

Amber looks at him with wide eyes. “You'll teach me that right?”

Harry doesn't have the heart to tell her there's nothing to teach. If magic courses through her veins, she only has to say the word. He shrugs. “Why not."

“Fantastic,” Amber says. “I’ll go get the stuff.”

Louis waits until she’s long gone. “What is this, Harry?” he asks. “She’s not a witch. Please tell me you realize that.”

Harry peeks at the corridor. “I don’t know that for sure.”

“Oh, come on. There’s no way you’re this daft. What are we actually doing here?”

Harry wraps his arms around his torso. “I’m going to die in nine years,” he says.

Afterwards, it occurs to him that he’s never said as much aloud. Speaking things aloud, as witchcraft has proven, gives it power. It lends substance. So, to some degree, he regrets saying it. To another degree, it’s the truth. Verbalised or not, it has always been the truth.

“I’m going to die on my 30th birthday,” Harry says. “Same as all the men in my family. 29 years, that’s all I get. And I know you say you forgot all about me, but you didn’t forget that.”

The day Aiden Styles died, he and Louis were in Hawaii where they had traveled for the 2012 Sandoli Competition to compete as a duet. Harry hadn’t seen his father in a year. Aiden had spent that time traveling the world, searching for ways to break the curse and also, forcing space between himself and his family, as if to make it easier to bear when he was actually gone.

Whenever another male in Harry’s family approached thirty, there was always a collective thought — and a collective hope — that maybe this one would be spared. That somehow the family had righted their wrongs since their last loss.

Harry took to the stage at Sandoli, on the eave of his father’s thirtieth birthday full of dread and full of hope. Full of melancholy because truthfully, he was a realist. He knew that it was later in Hawaii than in almost any other part of the world. Meaning that by 19:00 on 17 April 2012, as Harry played and fumbled the last five notes of Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp, it was already midnight on 18 April in most parts of the world, and his father was likely dead.

They found him in a hotel room two days later. He’d suffered an aneurysm at thirty.

In Amber’s study, he and Louis stand in tense silence. Louis looks anywhere but at him.

“Thought the great wizard Harry Styles would’ve broken that curse by now.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“You said your sister was pregnant. Do you know yet what the sex is?”

“No. I’m not sure she wants to know,” Harry says. He can’t take the tension anymore and he doesn’t want the pity. “Anyway, I think I have a lead now. A few months ago, I started having these dreams. Amber was in them. I was in her dreams too.”

“How romantic,” Louis says.

Harry looks at him, tiredly. “I recognized her because we met at Sandoli. You never met her in person, but she and I ran into each other outside the loo. And then this summer, I saw her again at a party off-campus. And we connected some dots.”

Louis appears to be scouring his memory. Without a doubt, he’s recalling all the other more prominent events of that day. “And those dots are?”

“Her name is Amber _Forsythe_ ,” Harry says. “It was a Forsythe witch who cursed the men in my family.”

Understanding lights Louis’ gaze. “But there are plenty of people named Forsythe.”

True, and every time Harry hears the name, his throat narrows and the air thins. “I’m not having dreams about those people.”

“None of this changes the fact that she’s powerless. There’s not a wink of magic in her.”

“I detect a wink,” Harry argues.

“This girl can’t save you. You’re getting desperate.”

“Desperate to see my thirties? You think?”

Again, Louis falls silent. “What’s your plan?" he asks. "And how does it involve me?”

“I have a suspicion that Amber’s been cursed too. That’s why she doesn’t have magic. I want to use a divining spell. But since that’s demon magic, you have to offer up blood. Both Amber’s blood and the blood of a preternatural being. I can’t use my own because I’m also cursed. It’d just confuse things.”

Amber returns with a stack of paper. “Did he say yes?”

Louis keeps his gaze on Harry. “You couldn’t have gotten one of your witch friends involved in this?”

“They don’t know,” Harry says. “I haven’t told them about the curse. I don’t plan to.”

“Makes sense,” Louis says, no amount of sarcasm spared. 

“I never planned to ask you either,” Harry says. It was Amber’s idea. “I would have figured something else out. So, you don’t have to help me.”

“You haven’t really left me much choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Harry says, in his mother’s voice, and it’s not his imagination when Louis’ gaze softens infinitesimally.

“Is that the sigil?” Louis asks, nodding towards the papers in Amber’s arms.

“Hot off the press,” Amber says.

Louis holds his hand out. “Let’s get on with this, then.”

Amber divides the stack between the three of them and together, they lay the sheets of paper out like puzzles pieces. It takes a half-hour before Harry lays down the final sheet of paper forming the large ornate circle at their feet. “Okay,” he says, lifting two knives off the counter. He hands one to each of them. “Have they been sterilised?”

Amber nods.

“Then, first, I need Louis’ blood as an offering,” Harry says. “I’ll read the opening rites and I’ll let you know when to do it.”

Shutting his eyes, Harry calls on Marbas, the demon of knowledge, reciting the mix of Latin and demon tongue that he memorised over the last week. He gives Louis a nod and Louis steps forward, pressing the blade into his palm without wincing. He lets the blood run down his fingertips. Five drops stain the paper and the sigil begins to glow subtly.

“Marbas,” Harry says reverently. “I’ve come to you with my sister, Amber Forsythe, who I believe has been cursed. Take her blood and reveal all banes against her.” He gives Amber a nod. She hesitates to press on the blade with enough force. Before she can blink, Louis takes the blade from her, running it quickly across her palm. He wags her hand over the sigil, splattering a few drops of blood, and tosses the knife off to the side.

“Reveal to us those who have caused her harm or wish to cause her harm,” Harry goes on. “Share your knowledge with us, great one. Do this and we will be forever grateful.”

Harry opens to his eyes to find that the room is entirely dark. He can’t see Louis or Amber anymore. He can’t see his own hands in front of himself. There is a high-pitched ringing sound that grows louder and sharper until it’s all he can hear. The smell of brimstone fills the air. The smell of flesh so pungent Harry has to resist covering his nose or gagging. His eyes water. He hears paws on wet earth. Are they damp with mud? Or water? Or blood?

For the first time, he feels fear. Perhaps he didn’t offer up enough or he read the rites wrong. Who did he call into the room with them? Perhaps the demon — Marbas or otherwise — has deemed him inadequate and this is how it ends for him. Not in seven years, but now, crushed under some infernal hoof.

He feels a puff of hot breath on his face, ruffling the tendrils of his hair.

Then it’s over. His vision is back. The smells and the sounds are gone.

Louis drags his arm across his face. “Bastard fucking licked me.”

Harry glares at him. Perhaps it’s Louis’ fault. It’s always his fault. The demon must have detected how irreverent he was and decided to punish them all. “He didn’t say anything,” Harry says. “Why didn’t he tell us anything?”

“He did,” Louis says, nodding to the sigil. 

The smoke hasn’t entirely cleared at their feet, but when it does, there are two words burned into the paper. A name.

It’s Louis who asks the question on their minds. “Who the fuck is Hattie Vindicta?”


	3. Chapter 3

A polished black sedan arrives to shuttle them back to campus from Amber’s home. Harry never sees Louis call for it, but it’s there almost as soon as the three of them collectively decide to wrap up. Harry has a shift at Katagiri. Louis has simply had enough of them both.

“What will your minions think if I show up to campus with you?” Harry asks.

“Just make sure you’re not seen,” Louis says. “You could walk to a bus station if that sounds better.”

Of course that doesn’t sound better. Harry would never make it in time for work. Reluctantly, he climbs into the car. “Good evening, Master Louis,” he heard the driver say.

“Evening, Charles," Louis says.

“And Master Harry,” Charles says. “It’s been a while.”

Harry is usually good with faces, but he didn’t recognize the weathered driver at first. Charles, unlike the other staff at the Tomlinson estate, is half-human. His father was a pureblood and a distant Tomlinson cousin. He ages. At a different rate than humans, but he’s mortal. Harry is so used to people not changing around him that even the graying of Charles’s hair renders him foreign. But looking into his gray eyes, he knows him and feels a familiar fondness for him.

“Good to see you, Charles,” he says, smiling. "You look well."

Charles is chuffed, smiling as he pulls out of Amber’s drive. He puts the radio on. 90's classics that don't require much thought.

“Just so we’re clear," Louis says. "That’s the same Amber whose boyfriend tried to jump you?” 

“Yes... But we’re not _involved_ ,” Harry says. “She was trying to make him jealous, like I said.”

“I got that part. It’s pretty clear she’s not interested you. She thinks you’re her ticket to Hogwarts.”

Harry exhales a calming breath as the car starts across a bridge. Some things don’t deserve a response. Everything Louis says falls into that category. It’s difficult, but Harry resists. He watches the setting sun reflecting on the water below and braces himself. Not for the trek over the bridge, but for the question he needs to ask. “You know, there’s a divining spell that has to do with lineage,” he says, looking through the window still. “If a person wanted to know more about his mother, for example, Marbas might be able to tell him more.”

When there is no response from Louis, Harry glances at him.

“And?” Louis asks.

“I don’t know if you’re still interested in finding her, or if you have already, but I could help. That’s all. I would need at least one personal item of hers, but—”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Harry figured it would be obvious. It’s not that he wants to involve himself in Louis’ personal or familial business. It’s that he feels obliged to. “You helped me tonight. I think I should return the favor if I can.”

“No, thanks.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I doubt that, but it’s also not the issue.”

“What is, then?”

“I said no thanks. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Fine.”

Louis pulls the cigarette case and lighter from his breast pocket and lights up. Harry doesn’t know why he thinks of it, but once upon a time, Louis would offer him one. They were way too young to smoke, but much of what they endured back then aged them prematurely. Smoking isn't cool, but they weren't doing it to be cool, were they? They were doing it because they were a little fucked up. And because sometimes it helped if the anxiety made his hands tremor. If he's honest, though, he found Louis so effortlessly, mind-numbingly cool in those days, with his gold engraved case and lighter, and his hands shielding their cigarettes from the wind, his face aglow. He once had a thought that even the ancient poets would mock him for: that Louis' lashes were so lush, when he blinked, he might accidentally fan the lighter's flame.

They don’t speak for several minutes. Harry is so embarrassed by his line of thought, he couldn't speak if he wanted to. He wants out of the car as soon as possible, away from Louis and the ignorance and the persistence of him.

“You’re not the kind of person to take a hint, so I’ll just tell you,” Louis says. “If someone isn’t making any effort for you, there’s no need to make an effort for them."

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought my father was keeping her away all these years. I wanted to believe that when I was a kid, but it’s bullshit. Do you think there’s anything that could keep your mum away from you? You think she wouldn’t find a way to reach you?” Louis asks, and when there’s no reply from Harry, he says, “Exactly.”

Neither of them likes to be pitied, so Harry quiets again.

“I'm assuming you know what your next move is?" Louis asks, checking his phone. He sends a quick message to someone.

“You heard Amber," Harry says. "She’ll ask her mum and her aunts about Hattie Vindicta. In the meantime, I’ll do some research of my own.”

Louis blows his smoke towards the open car window. “I think that’s a dead end.”

“I don’t.”

“It's very clear to me that you’re wasting time and energy. Even if you restore her magic somehow, she’s got no training whatsoever, so the likelihood of her managing to undo a centuries-old curse is zero. She knows nothing about her family history. I doubt her parents do. By the time you sort all that out, you’ll be dead.”

“That’s encouraging,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“She needs my help. I like helping people. And I don’t see the point of having all this power if I don’t use it. If I can restore a whole coven’s magic, I think that’s a good deed worth dying for.”

“All that power,” Louis repeats.

“Not as powerful as you, Lord Tomlinson.”

Louis outright glares at him. There’s a zing of malice in the air. Harry lifts his brows, daring him to try it, try anything whatsoever.

“You’re not half as noble as you want me to believe,” Louis says.

“I don’t want you to believe anything about me—”

“This isn’t about doing a good deed. We’re talking about the same coven that cursed your whole family. The same ones who killed your father. You don’t give a shit about them. You don’t want to help them. You think they can help you. That’s all it is. Don’t try to trick me into thinking it’s anything more than that.”

“You don’t know me, Louis.”

“There’s not much to know.”

It’s not Harry’s imagination when the volume on the radio increases a smidge. He happens to make eye contact with Charles and feels vaguely ashamed. Louis is undeterred. “There’s a limit to the things any of us can do. Even you. You could burn out and get yourself killed. You could lose your own power. And end up just as ordinary as her.”

“So, now you think I’m extraordinary?” Harry asks, coquettishly.

Louis shakes his head, exasperated. “You know what? None of this is my business. I shouldn’t even be involved.”

“I’ll make sure to leave you out of it next time.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Harry allows him the last word. Suddenly, he’s too tired to fight for it. Tired from an outpouring of power. Tired of chasing dead ends. Maybe, once again, Louis is right. About Amber. But it’s his first lead in years and it feels different. Harry holds tightly to that feeling.

†

Louis' mother, Lucia, was Gregory Tomlinson’s first wife and his first love in two hundred years. No woman, immortal or otherwise, had caught his attention prior. Outsiders called it “love." They reasoned that no other power could rattle Gregory’s stone heart but that. Louis wasn’t convinced. He didn’t think his father was capable of loving anyone.

Not even Lucia, who was loved by all.

She was a pureblood duchess and a “newborn” — a term used to describe purebloods (and witches) who hadn’t yet stopped (or slowed) aging. She was desired by all too with more suitors than she could be bothered to entertain. And with all those vampires vying for her devotion, Gregory was likely spurred by competition. Perhaps he did love her, but then there was no explaining why she ran.

Four years after Louis was born and two years after Lottie — she simply vanished.

Gregory spiraled, of course. He immediately married again to save face. He claimed he had banished Lucia for undisclosed reasons, which Louis grew up believing, and that if she was seen, he would not be as merciful as before. He kept her from her children, but he couldn’t do so forever.

“She’d find a way back to me if she could,” Louis said once. “One day, we’ll find our way back to each other.”

It doesn’t bode well that Louis has stopped believing as much. "Grief is bespoke," Harry once read. The same can be said of hopelessness. It looks different on everyone, but still, it’s undisguisable. Whenever Harry feels it rearing up within himself, he remembers one of the first things his parents ever taught him. To 'hope like his life depended on it because it did.' Growing up mortally cursed made hopefulness simultaneously difficult and paramount. On his worst days, whenever he starts to forget, it’s his mother’s cottage that he returns to.

Charming is the only way to describe her abode. With its white brick and cobblestone facade and its moss green door. The latter is always adorned with a wreath of jasmine to ward off malice. A chic and sensible barrier spell. The chimney is often billowing with smoke. The windows are often aglow with warm light — from the fireplace or the cauldron — and his mother’s familiar, Sybil, is always snoozing in one of them. 

The following day, like any other, it smells of sage and fresh bread. Stevie Nicks is playing on the record player. His mother, Anne, is in the living room, reading the future. The woman sitting across from her is rapt, twisting a glove anxiously as she waits. Harry quietly slips past them and into the kitchen where, as expected, there's a plate of fresh biscuits waiting.

His mum peers into the porcelain cup in her hand. “I see someone named Simon. There's a bit of darkness around him, but it's ambiguity not foreboding. I see love in your future too. A long love. Not with Simon, but he may be involved. I wouldn't be surprised if he's the bridge between you and your new lover.”

“My new boss is named Simon. He starts next Tuesday. Does it say when this new lover might come along?” she asks, breathlessly. “It’d be great if it happened by spring. I have a wedding to attend and I don’t have a date.”

“Doesn’t say, but I wouldn’t rush it. Acting hastily could alter your future. Nothing is set in stone.”

The woman nods astutely. Moments later, she pays and leaves. Anne steps into the kitchen.

“So, when is her new lover expected?” Harry asks, setting his Joan Didion novel down spine-up.

“Next week, but you can’t tell people things like that. They lose their heads.” She kisses his cheek. “Tea?”

“I put the kettle on already.”

“Then we’ll have a cuppa and you can tell me what’s wrong.”

It starts to rain. Sybil immediately reconvenes by the fireplace where it’s warm and dry. Willow joins her, the two of them curled together, one silver and one black like a pseudo yin and yang.

His mum, well trained in telekinetic magic, shuts the windows by looking at them. She makes him a cup of lavender tea with a splash of belladonna. It would be toxic to humans, but it can soothe a witch’s senses when they get to be too much. “Before you say anything, this has been eating away at me for days and I have to tell you. Louis is back from his sabbatical,” she says. “I’ve also heard he’s at Laitswold. Have you seen him?”

The tea is still too hot, but Harry has a greedy sip. “Too much of him,” he says. “He’s in Jude O’Meara’s music class. We’re reviving the old duet.”

His mum can’t help but look pleased. “Oh?” she says nonchalantly.

“He wants us to perform together for the recital next term, which seems inappropriate and unfair to the other students, but it’s not like I can say that. Or else Louis will think I’m scared and I’m trying to get out of it. And I’d love to get out of it, but obviously, I can’t let him or Jude know that.”

Falling silent, he draws a deep breath and drinks his tea. Already some of the noise in his head has gone dull, which sets the greater issues in stark relief. “I’m finding it hard to be a good person,” he admits.

“I highly doubt that.”

“Have you spoken to him? He’s unbearable. Even when he’s doing something bearable. Like when he plays—” Or when he takes part in Harry’s shoddy summoning rituals… “He’s uncaring. Especially if it has to do with me. He’s different. _Indifferent_. And intolerable.”

“You two were always poking at each other, as I remember it. Doesn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

“It’s not the same as before.”

“Well, how did you leave things? Before he went away?”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. “Pretty sure we just said bye.”

His mum simply smiles. “Hope I get the rest of that story someday,” she says, which he appreciates. She always knows when he’s hiding something, either because she’s a witch or a very keen mum, and she always says so plainly.

Harry rests his head on his forearms, suddenly sleepy. “I think he's critically hopeless. And it’s not like I’m in any position to help him.”

“You’re in exactly the position to help him,” his mum says, running her fingers through his curls. “You shouldn’t feel obligated, of course. You always have a choice. But it seems divine to me. That Louis should return after all these years and find himself almost exactly where he left off.”

Harry begins to drift off and suddenly his mum has a quilt, which she drapes over his shoulders.

“Circles are a blessing, Harry,” she says. “When the universe puts us back where we were, sometimes it’s a chance to start over.”

†

Harry’s mother, like the Pennylynn witches, is good down to her marrow too. She’s the kind of witch he strives to become, though there’s nothing to be done about Harry’s arrogance or his stubbornness. He is who he is. But he likes to think he is kind for kindness sake because of his mother.

She's selfless, too, and strifeless. It’s not that nothing bothers her. He knows that isn’t true. And it’s not that life is too short. Because for witches, life isn’t short at all. It’s not an eternity, but 2000 years — about the average life span for his kind — can feel like it. 

(Starting at thirty, a witch ages every twenty years. Harry’s nan, for example, has been around for 400 years or so, although she doesn’t look a day over 40.)

His mum comes off as if she’s been around for hundreds of years too. But in fact, she and Harry’s father were newborn witches when they met. They grew up in the same town and lived down the street from one another. They saw each other to a nauseating degree. The degree to which most people would grow sick of one another, but Anne and Aiden simply never did.

“Did he tell you?” Harry once asked her. “After you fell in love with him?”

“He told me before I fell in love with him,” his mum said. “I was the first person he ever told.”

And in spite of the curse, she married Aiden at seventeen. They had Gemma at eighteen and Harry at twenty. They were fast-tracking their lives in the event that Aiden did die. And she never regretted any of it. Harry asked her that too.

“Not one second,” she said. 

Which is just to paint a picture of the immense nature of his mother’s heart. It’s roomy, Harry likes to say. There’s space for the aching and pain, which she knows plenty of. But there’s so much more space for loving and caring and welcoming people. Like Louis, for example. It’s something he aspires to, but isn’t sure he’ll ever attain. The ability to love people in spite of circumstances, in spite of themselves.

His mother loved Louis. Harry knows if he asks her, she’ll say she still does.

†

Witchery 303 is the most inane class on his roster. All the witchcraft courses were. Harry imagines that the demons and the wolves feel the same way about their species-specific courses too. When you get to be an adult, that’s when the powers that be deem it appropriate to teach you big boy magic. Arcane magic. All the textbook drivel that Harry taught himself when he was an adolescent. Here’s how you control minds… Here’s how you commune with the dead… 

He’s been there and done that.

Ironically, the topic that day is demon summoning, and it starts on the usual condescending note.

“Under no circumstances should you summon a demon,” Professor Varis says. “They will always want something in return for their visit, though they might not tell you what it is until years in the future.”

See? Harry knew that already. He can’t very well stand up in the middle of class and announce that he successfully summoned Marbas several days ago, but he’s tempted. Point is there’s nothing Professor Varis could tell him about demon summoning that he didn’t already read.

Varis lifts his hand into the air, baring his wrist. There below his vein is a scorch mark shaped like a tear. “This is a debtor’s mark,” he says. “You’ll have one for as long as you owe a demon.”

Of course, Harry has seen that too. He discreetly slides his right arm off his desk and into his lap.

“Many years ago, I requested something of a demon,” Varis says. “The price for doing so is typically a year of servitude upon death.”

To that regard, Harry rationalised that if he broke his family’s curse, he wouldn’t die for thousands of years. A year of servitude in hell doesn’t sound great, per se. But demons take holidays there. They throw parties in hell. It can’t be all bad. 

“Your stakes affect everything. Belphegor, for example, a prince of Hell as we know, is also the demon of discovery. Like his brother, Marbas, he’s often summoned to provide knowledge. If knowing something is the difference between life or death, the price of that knowledge will be much higher. The demon always knows the stakes. An important factor here is the witch’s lifespan.”

“Could you explain that further?” a witch named Pippa asks.

“Certainly,” Varis says. “A witch with a long lifespan, like most of us, is likely to incur several more debts over the course of his or her lifetime. The demon is more likely to start you off with a small, inconsequential debt, so that you’ll be tricked into requesting more favors from them. And the more favors you request, the greater the debts become. Not only is this more beneficial for the demon. It’s more fun. Always remember that demons crave mischief and chaos. Therefore, instead of requesting a measly year of servitude, if the demon knows you’re likely to die soon, they'll request an immense service of you.”

Now, Harry feels a little ill. The business of lifespans wasn’t in any of the texts he read.

“If you must rely on a demon, it’s best that it be one you know and can somewhat trust. Look to your demon colleagues, for example. After a demon graduates, or even before, he or she might choose to sojourn in hell. If a demon spends any amount of time in hell, their minds will be open to a wealth of knowledge. They might not know as much as Belphegor or Marbas, but a demon who you are relatively familiar with is always a better choice.”

Harry didn’t think to try that either. He doesn’t know any demons who have been to hell, though his mother might’ve. Suddenly, he needs fresh air. Or rather he wants to leave the classroom before Professor Varis reveals another detrimental mistake Harry might've made.

But first, Harry raises his hand. “When you say an immense service,” he begins. “Could you give us an example of that?”

“The worst thing I could think of is death,” Varis says. “Murder. The demon will ask for a sacrifice, human or otherwise. Which brings us to the topic of Gertrude Thistle. If you could all turn to page 15 in your textbooks...”

Harry can't possibly sit still after that. It’s not his most subtle move, but he packs up his things and leaves the classroom with an apologetic nod to the professor.

†

The black iron spires of Lysgrom scrape the sky like bony fingers. One has been crooked for the longest time. Supposedly, it was struck by a particularly powerful bolt of lightning or a massive hailstone. The windows are marred by water residue and mineral deposits. The gargoyles are similarly weathered, tired of their eternal watch. And the basilisk statue in the center of the dorm’s courtyard is supposedly haunted. During Mabon, it’s said the water in the fountain surrounding it sometimes turns black and the eyes of the basilisk begin to glow a sickly green. Harry has never seen it. He doubts anyone has.

That Wednesday is in fact the last day of Mabon and all around him are students loitering and making plans, or climbing into cars, knowing already which party they’re headed to. For Harry, three options seem equally tempting:

He could go out and celebrate too. Niall and Igris have definitely scoped out the party with the most free booze by now, and getting pissed is the surest way of forgetting all about his summoning faux pas. Or he could stay in. Because despite its afflictions, Lysgrom is the nicest dorm on campus in Harry’s opinion. It’s not the most modern or the most well-built. There are a few leaks and a few ghosts, but it feels like home. One of his homes, at least.

The third option is catching a train and heading to his better home, where his mum has likely finished with her clients for the day and has just settled in with a glass of red to watch Practical Magic for the thousandth time. (It’s a scarily accurate story. The author isn’t a witch to their knowledge, but she has to know one. There's no other explanation.)

If he’s honest, it’s option three that seems the most tempting, though it worries him. Lately, he’s desperate to flee campus. To be as far away from Laitswold as he can possibly get. He’s running from his problems and he knows it. Just the one problem, at least.

Harry is sitting on the steps of Lysgrom, still weighing his options, when he sees the Rolls Royce pull up to the kerb. A second later, Louis steps out, looking directly at him for an instant. He shuts the car door and steps around to the opposite side as the window lowers.

There, in the car, is Gregory Tomlinson. His face as pinched and stony as the basilisk. Louis keeps his back ramrod straight as he and his father exchange words. He nods and the car advances forward.

Harry doesn’t move. He thinks he might be far enough away to go unnoticed, but Louis noticed him, so probably not. He wants to shrink down low and open the book in his bag and hide behind it, but he’s not a complete idiot. Nor is he a coward. So he doesn’t look away. He makes eye contact with the old vampire and refuses to break it as much as he wants to.

Gregory looks away, stoic as if he had looked through air. The tinted window is raised. When Harry finally looks away, Louis is gone too.

†

Harry would never forget the first snow of 2010. That week it rained and rained and the temperature dropped and dropped. By Friday, he was fed up with it, desperate for a spell that could change the weather, although he was a novice and certain to botch magic like that. It was a bitter, miserable week, and he remembers thinking how much better and more tolerable it would all be if only it snowed. At least then, they could have snowball fights and dig the sleds out of the cellar.

A plump white flake landed right on his windowsill that night, the first of many to fall in the coming days, as if to say ‘all of this is for you’. He felt a sudden, weightless thrill, unlike he’d felt in months since his father left home. He rushed down the stairs to tell his mum and sitting at the kitchen table was Louis.

It was odd for many reasons.

First, Harry's home was his sacred space. At school, he had to put up with Louis looking down on him. At the Tomlinson estate where they rehearsed, he had to deal with Gregory judging his every move. But comfort and security were always guaranteed at home. Or had been anyway.

Second, Louis was sitting in Harry’s favorite seat by the window, drinking tea from Harry’s favorite teacup, and draped in a quilt Harry’s mum had made for him. His favorite quilt, of course.

Third, he seemed cold. Not unkind cold. Not undead cold. His vampire blood was pure, and thus, it was warm. But he seemed to be shivering and his lips were a disconcerting blue.

And worst of all, there was a very large, very nasty burn on the side of his temple.

Harry’s mum was grinding herbs down in a mortar. She didn’t look at Harry. “Louis is going to stay with us tonight, love.”

He and Louis looked at one another. Harry said nothing. What could he say? 

“Why don’t you get him a towel and show him how to work the showerhead?” his mum asked. “And a change of clothes too.”

“Sure,” Harry said.

His mum turned to Louis. “When you’re all done, I’ll have an ointment for that wound. And dinner for you boys, alright?”

Louis nodded and stood. Up the stairs, they were quiet. Harry asked him, “Why aren’t you healing?” and got no response. He already knew the answer. Young purebloods didn’t possess full regenerative power yet. It was a slower, weaker process. Harry only asked because Louis hadn’t said a word in minutes. It was the quietest and least expressive he’d ever been, which left Harry feeling just as chilled as Louis looked. He got him a flannel and a towel, started the shower, and left a clean pair of clothes on the chair in the hallway.

Back downstairs, his mum glared out at the snow. “A _fire poker_ ,” she seethed. She gripped the phone in her hand until her knuckles turned white. “And then he put him out in the cold. Clearly, the bastard meant to kill him. Every year, you hear he’s fathered another child. At this point, he has what, fifteen? He shouldn’t have any!”

She put her forehead in her hand. “The driver said he asked about his mum. Which is his right. He’s a smart boy. Of course he knows he’s being lied to,” she said. “I’m not sending him back there, Aiden. He’ll stay with us for as long as he likes.”

Harry felt out of his body for the rest of the night. On some other plane, there was a Harry whose greatest concern was how to best make use of the snow. But he was set asunder from that person now by the reality of a childhood where fathers lied and struck their children with fire pokers and left them in the cold to die. Where boys like Louis who were loud and arrogant on an average day could be muted and diminished in an instant.

Louis didn’t say a word during dinner. They told each other to shut up all the time and now that Louis had, all Harry wanted was for him to speak. Gemma and Harry peeked at him frequently while their mum asked about their days and told them about her own and tried to distract everyone from the collection of elephants in the room. In the morning, she said they should take the sleds out.

Unlike the forty bedrooms at the Tomlinson estate, their home had only two, not including the attic. He and Gemma used to share a room divided by a curtain until she hit puberty and rightfully demanded her own space. Harry was all too happy to have the attic to himself. With a fresh coat of paint and a good sweep, it was perfect. Soon it was covered with posters and the shelves were packed with books and he hardly ever wanted to leave it. 

Harry returned from the washroom and found Louis already sitting on the bed, gently scratching Willow between the ears. Yet another odd sight. Harry quickly tidied his books on his desk and picked a pile of clothes up off the floor, though Louis clearly didn’t care. In fact, he had already climbed under the covers and put his back to the center of the bed by the time Harry looked at him again.

Harry slipped into the bed as well. He turned off his bedside light. He stared at the shadows of snowflakes cast on his wall by moonlight. He stared for so long he thought Louis had to be asleep. He was deathly quiet and still, but then, he’d been that way all night. Harry turned to face him and lost track of time again, staring at Louis’ dark hair sweeping over the back of his neck, especially one particular lock, which curled ever so slightly.

Very slowly and gingerly, Harry clasped that lock of hair between his fingertips.

“Don’t be weird,” Louis said.

Harry withdrew his hand, quickly, tucking it back beneath his head. “Made you talk.”

A few seconds went by. Louis turned onto his opposite side, but he didn’t say a word. 

Determined to get another out of him, Harry said, “I overheard my mum talking about what happened. I’m sorry he did that to you. She said you could stay as long as you wanted. And I’ve got a lot of extra clothes. Probably smells like witch, but—”

Louis’ lips twitched. “Reeks,” he said.

“Well, it’s all you’ve got. And there’s an order to washroom use. Gemma’s first because she gets up earlier, then me, so you have to go last. But maybe for the first week, we can alternate. I’ll think about it,” Harry said. “And you have to wash the dishes sometimes. That’s only fair.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Louis asked.

“That’s another thing. I don’t have to shut up here. You’ll just have to get used to that. Also, we’ve only got two sleds. So if you want to go sledding in the morning—"

“I’m not moving in, knobhead. As nice as your mum is,” Louis said. “The little ones are home still. We can’t all fit in your attic.”

“Are you worried he’ll hurt them?”

“No. I don’t think he would.”

Willow bounded up onto the bed and curled into a ball at Louis’ feet. She wouldn’t come to Harry. She was an extension of him after all, made of his spirit and his will. And his will at the moment, though he would never say so aloud, was to comfort Louis.

“Why is it that he only picks on you?” Harry asked.

“I’m the heir,” Louis said simply. 

“That means he should treat you even better,” Harry said. “He should treasure you.”

Louis looked at him. “I’m not a treasure, Harry.”

“You should be,” Harry said, and they let that lie with them. The admission that to some degree Harry treasured Louis. Or perhaps there was yet another Harry on another plane who would. And there, in Louis’ gaze, seemed to be an admission that he would let him.

The air shimmered with a gossamer sense of grace. The kind that descended on them when they made music together. All was forgotten and forgiven. With the same delicacy as before, Harry touched Louis’ cheek, just below the wound.

“It’ll heal,” Louis said.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Harry said. He reached for the duvet, drawing it up over their shoulders snugly. He shuffled closer until their toes touched.

“Good night,” he said, shutting his eyes.

When there was no immediate response, Harry worried Louis had gone mute again. He looked at him, found Louis looking back. He would never forget the way he looked at him. Delicate as much as anything else.

“Good night,” Louis said and shut his eyes.


End file.
